The Game of Empires - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Valerie Jones
Last updated: 02/13/2010 03:54:13 PM

Chapter 32

A short ways away, Scott favored him with an accusing frown as if to say, This is all your fault. Which it was, though Charles honestly didn’t know what other choice he could have made. At least Remi understood. He tried to hold onto that thought as he watched the play of emotion on Scott’s face.

Ororo was the first to break the silence. She laid her napkin on the table and rose gracefully to her feet. "I will go check on Renee," she said, directing her words toward Rogue before sweeping the rest of the table with her blue cat’s eyes.

Rogue nodded, but didn’t look up. Ororo left, her sandals whisking softly against the carpeting, and conversation slowly began to pick up around the table. Bobby put a hand on Rogue’s shoulder, talking to her. Rogue shrugged in response.

Charles rubbed his head with one hand and closed his eyes. He was so tired.

She had to find out sometime, Charles, Jean said from her place beside her husband.

Charles sighed. That doesn’t make it any easier. He opened his eyes.

Jean looked across the table at Rogue, sympathy softening her expression. No, it doesn’t.

Charles no longer felt like eating. "Please excuse me," he told the group and turned his hoverchair away from the table. No one tried to call him back.

He wandered away from the dining room, peering into darkened, empty doorways as he passed. The smell of tobacco assailed him and he followed it to the front porch where he found Remi leaning against one of the colonial columns, smoking and staring out at the grounds.

Charles’ stomach tightened. He had always disliked that habit, but because of the necessity of maintaining the timeline he had never done anything except to jokingly chide Gambit about it. He had expected Remi to quit, and the fact that he showed no signs of doing so left Charles with a vague sense of unease.

"Those are bad for you, you know," he said as he pulled up even with his son. He tried to keep his tone light.

Remi made a dismissive noise. "The last thing I need to be dealing with right now is nicotine withdrawal." He took another drag from his cigarette and glanced at Charles, his gaze dark. "Besides, if I end up dying of cancer it’s a lot more likely it’ll be from the dose of radiation I got when the Dresden blew up." He waved the cigarette. "Not these."

Charles stiffened at the rebuke. He wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt to be pushed away by his son. Gambit had always held him at a distance, which had saddened him more than anything, but he and Remi had started down this road together and the hope of regaining this relationship had sometimes been the only thing that kept him going.

"I just thought..." Charles could hear the defensiveness in his own voice and bit back a sigh. "I guess I thought it was Gambit’s habit, not yours."

Remi cocked his head, traces of surprise in his expression. He glanced down at the cigarette in his hand and then shrugged. "I suppose it is." But he took another drag and expelled the smoke in a long plume, his gaze distant.

Charles didn’t know what to make of his response, so, rather than push he decided to switch topics.

"How is Renee?" he asked. Regardless of where she’d gone, he was certain Remi would be keeping track of her telepathically.

Pain flickered across Remi’s mobile face and then disappeared, save for a single crease between the arching brows. "Not great."

"Where is she?"

Remi dropped his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it, grinding the butt beneath his shoe with excessive force. "Out in the graveyard, searching for a headstone that isn’t there."

Charles watched him in concern, taking in the set of his jaw and the luminescent glow of his irises, like red embers against the gathering dusk.

"Are you angry at her?" he asked, keeping his voice gentle.

Remi’s eyes flashed. "Of course not."

Charles didn’t call him on his lie. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must be for both of them.

After a minute Remi picked up the spent cigarette butt, pocketing it, and came and sat on the top step next to Charles. He braced his elbows on his knees and knotted his hands in his hair, his gaze fixed on the wooden boards between his feet.

Hesitantly, Charles reached out and laid a hand on his back. Remi didn’t say anything, but he leaned into the touch and a small ball of warmth formed in the middle of Charles’ chest, radiating outward.

"Give Renee time," Charles finally said. "She’s been through a lot. You both have."

Remi’s fingers tightened in his hair. "She’s closed off her mind completely. She won’t let me in." Guilt and frustration colored his voice in equal measure. He turned to look up at Charles. "I’m not even sure I want to know." The molten irises dimmed and he turned away, his expression hollow. "I left her, and the Shadow King took her."

Charles’ heart turned cold and sank at the thought of what the Shadow King might have done to Renee, and he knew Remi’s imagination could conjure just as many horrors as his own. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t sound trite or naïve. Instead, he rubbed his palm in a slow circle on his son’s back, hoping to impart some kind of comfort through his presence.

"You didn’t have a choice. I’m sure she understands that."

Remi didn’t seem to hear him. "We were supposed to take care of her, Cody and me." He rubbed his face with his hands, quiet anguish in his voice, but then he suddenly straightened, pulling away from Charles. Charles could see him putting the guilt away.

In that, he was very much like his mother, Charles decided. Lilandra had always been good at compartmentalizing.

Remi stood and walked down the steps to the front walk. He looked upward as if searching for the stars that would just be becoming visible as the sky darkened, and Charles could guess the direction of his thoughts.

"She won’t reach Chandilar for a few days yet," he said.

Remi lowered his gaze. "I wish I could have gone with her." He glanced back at Charles. "The Noble houses will unsheathe their talons once they find out the Empress has an heir."

Charles couldn’t help the little twinge he felt at the thought of losing his son again, if only to the royal court of the Shi’ar Empire. He found it strangely difficult to imagine Remi in the full regalia of an Imperial Prince.

"Lilandra will keep them in check until you are able to join her," he said.

"I know."

Charles rubbed his hand across his scalp, trying to massage away the tension that skittered across his skull. "Do you miss it?"

"Chandilar?" Remi asked with an expressive lift of his eyebrows.

Charles smiled wryly. "Being a prince," he clarified and was rewarded by a short laugh.

"I don’t miss the politics, that’s for sure." Remi turned and walked back to join him. "But I miss being home. I miss the city and the lights, and how there was always something going on, day or night." He flopped down on the step next to Charles and leaned back, propping himself on his hands. "I think that’s why New Orleans always felt so comfortable." He pronounced it N’awlins, the sultry drawl at odds with his faint Shi’ar accent.

Charles stared out at the darkened grounds for a while as his thoughts turned. "I wish I could have done a better job of all of this, somehow," he finally said. The guilt settled on his shoulders again, its weight lessened only marginally by Remi’s presence. His choices had caused so much pain, and it was hard to keep believing that it had been the right path to take.

Remi gave him a bittersweet smile. "You did fine, Aban," he said. "No one could have known how it would all turn out." He paused as if struck by a sudden thought and then straightened. "Except the Gamesmaster. He would have known. He seems to be able to see or predict all of these timelines."

Remi turned to Charles with a troubled frown. "But why wouldn’t he have warned us? He was the one who set everything in motion with the Witness. He was the one who warned Cody and me to jump the four of us out of our timeline. Why didn’t he warn us about Onslaught?"

Charles could only shake his head. "I don’t know, Remi. We really don’t know why the Gamesmaster does anything."

Remi’s shrugged. "He’s always helped us." Charles could almost see the gears turning in his head. "I wonder if there are still paradox issues-" Remi braced his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together, absently running one thumb across a scar on the back of the other hand. "Maybe he couldn’t give us a specific warning. He never has, if you think about it."

The analysis made Charles pause. He’d never given the Gamesmaster much thought. The X-Men rarely interacted him, and when they did it was as an opponent, or at the very least an obstacle. But was that because he, too, had known the importance of keeping the timeline the same, or did he have some other motivation?

"I don’t know," he finally said again. "Regardless of the why, we are where we are." Charles would find it hard to trust any help the Gamesmaster offered.

Remi acknowledged him with a nod. He continued to stroke the scar on his hand, his gaze distant. Charles didn’t recognize the injury. The line was dark, though, indicating a fairly recent event.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Remi’s fingers stilled. He glanced down, his hand curling into a fist. "Nothing."

Charles raised an eyebrow at his curt tone.

Remi sighed and flexed his fingers. "I cut it in Antarctica," he explained after a moment. "Wasn’t serious, really, but it should have had stitches."

Charles’ stomach knotted at that. The Shadow King had nearly shattered his X-Men in Antarctica and had almost killed his son. Charles had gotten the story of what happened there in bits and pieces, first from Hank and later Rogue. It had horrified him. The Shadow King had brought out the very worst in all of them. And even though Remi wasn’t the same person who’d suffered that judgment, Charles could see that it still hurt on some level, and the shame of the X-Men who’d participated remained very real.

After a moment, Charles went back to staring out into the darkness. He couldn’t do anything about the past, no matter how many regrets he carried. All that remained was the future and the hope that the X-Men could somehow put the hurt and betrayal behind them to become a team capable of withstanding the Shadow King’s destructive influence. If they couldn’t, Charles was terribly afraid they didn’t stand a chance of defeating him.

Ororo found Renee standing in the middle of the X-Men’s tiny graveyard, her arms wrapped around herself and her shoulder hitching with uneven sobs. She spun at the crunch of Ororo’s sandals in the grass, her red irises gleaming in the fading light like the reflection of headlights from some startled creature’s eyes.

"He’s not here, Aunt ’Ro," Renee said in a broken child’s voice.

Ororo slowed her steps, unconsciously summoning a breath of wind to stir the trees and drench them in the rich smell of living things. "Who isn’t here, child?" she asked, though she could guess the answer.

"My dad." She hunched her shoulders, her breathing ragged. "He’s supposed to be here. Why isn’t he here?"

"Because he is in the house," Ororo answered reasonably. She gestured toward the mansion behind her.

"No!"

Ororo rocked back on her heels in surprise at Renee’s vehemence. The young woman stalked toward her, arms falling to her sides and her hands forming tight fists.

"He is not my father. Don’t ever call him that!" She stabbed one finger toward the mansion. "That is Remi and he left me. He left me. My father would never-" She faltered. "He would never leave me like that-" Sudden tears filled her eyes and Ororo’s heart nearly broke for the pain she could see swimming in the red depths.

Quickly she stepped forward and took Renee in her arms. The girl jerked against her the same way Rogue always did out of fear of an accidental touch, but Ororo didn’t let her pull away and after a moment Renee wrapped both arms around her, clinging to her with desperate strength. Ororo stroked the red hair while Renee sobbed, wishing she knew what to say. Her own emotions were raw and uncertain, and she was afraid of making the hurt any worse for either of them.

Renee pulled away after just a couple of minutes, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the backs of her gloves. "I’m sorry." She moved back a few steps and sank to the ground against one of the headstones, pulling her knees up against her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

"You do not need to apologize," Ororo said after a moment. She followed Renee, carefully keeping a distance between them. She didn’t want to spook the girl by trying to force too much physical contact on her. "There is no shame in expressing how you feel."

Renee looked up as Ororo knelt in the grass and arranged her skirt around her legs. The young woman’s expression was a strange mix of longing and reproach.

"Why did you say he was in the house?" Renee asked. "You don’t really believe they’re the same person... do you? Dad was your friend."

Ororo forced herself to remain still as the grief washed through her again. "Yes," she agreed softly. "He... was." Renee continued to stare at her with the same wounded expression and eventually Ororo sighed.

"The man I knew..." She paused and started again. "The man who was my friend... he is not the same as he was, and I mourn my loss." She reached down, running her fingers through the grass. The blades were sharp against her skin, but they were alive.

"And yet, his spirit lives, does it not?" she asked of herself as much as Renee. She glanced over her shoulder toward the mansion, whose windows spilled warm light onto the lawn. "Inside Rem’aillon." She looked back at Renee. "Inside your friend."

Renee laid her chin on her knee. "I don’t know what he is any more."

"He loves you," Ororo said before she could consider the words, and covered her surprise by clearing her throat. She wasn’t sure what had prompted her to say that, though it was certainly true. Remi’s feelings for Renee showed in his eyes any time he looked at her.

Renee sat back, tucking her arms around her waist. "I know he does." She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with her gloved fingers. She leaned her head back against the headstone and closed her eyes.

She was silent for several minutes and Ororo contented herself simply to sit there, listening to the night sounds and letting her mind sift through memories of Remy. Strongest, perhaps, were their carefree days in New Orleans. She’d been safe with him there in the decadent old city-safe and happy. Though the child she had been would never have admitted it, she had needed an adult presence in her life and Remy had taken her in without the faintest hint of resentment or regret. He had loved her like a daughter or a younger sister, and Ororo suddenly realized she had seen the same expression in his eyes back then that she saw now when Rem’aillon looked at Renee.

Strangely, her heart lifted. Yes, his spirit lives, she thought and felt a slow smile stretch her lips.

En Sabah Nur stepped inside the massive catacombs where Ozymandias carved his visions of the future with a strange thrill of anticipation. He paused on the threshold, taken aback by the unaccustomed feeling. A few steps ahead, Ozymandias stopped as well and looked over his shoulder with a curious frown.

"Is something wrong, Lord Apocalypse?" he asked.

En Sabah quickly stepped forward. "Do not waste my time with foolish questions. Where is the image you wanted me to see?"

Ozymandias wrapped his robe more tightly around his frame. "Yes, my lord. This way."

He led En Sabah through a maze of towering rock faces. The light from the lantern he carried aloft threw flickering shadows across the overlapping images, casting them in stark relief.

En Sabah did not look up. These images were all of the past and so of no interest to him. Only the future mattered.

Eventually they stopped in front of a deeply striated face that stretched upward into the darkness like a rippled curtain. Figures had been carved into the stone, their edges fresh and sharp from Ozymandias’ chisel. They grew organically out of the ridges and gullies of the rock as if they had always been there, just waiting for the old man to uncover them.

En Sabah searched the broad carving, unwilling to admit to himself that he hoped to find a certain elegant face somewhere in the intricate shapes.

He recognized the X-Men first. They stood in a battle-ready formation, their attention focused away from En Sabah’s viewpoint. Storm clouds filled the horizon they faced; massive thunderheads whose towering shapes conveyed a sense of weight and menace. He stared at the cloud for several seconds, curious what it might represent. He would have preferred that it be an indicator of his own ascension to the High Lordship that was his destiny, but he didn’t see any of the imagery or symbols that usually decorated his form in Ozymandias’ carvings. Whatever it was, it looked like it would pose a significant challenge to the X-Men.

Finally, his gaze moved down to the lowest section of the carving, the forefront of the scene, and there he froze in disbelief.

"It’s troubling, isn’t it?" Ozymandias asked. En Sabah could hear the echoes of satisfaction in his voice, but he was too preoccupied with the image before him to react.

In the carving, En Sabah lay sprawled on his back, his armor shattered. He knew it couldn’t be anyone else because the hieroglyphs that made up his chosen name, Forever Walker, were written across his forehead. But an ugly gash obliterated part of the name, and blood spilled freely across his face. More disturbing still, Nightengale knelt over him dressed in the uniform of an X-Man. Her hand held the hilt of a dagger that had been driven into his chest, and En Sabah couldn’t tell from her pose whether she had delivered the blow herself or if she were merely taking hold of the knife to pull it out. Her long hair, carved out of a band of red stone that had a single pale streak through its middle, hid her expression.

Anger filled him as he stared at the image. Releasing Nightengale had been a rash act. She would obviously become a threat to him if allowed to remain with the X-Men. Ozymandias’ carving made that painfully clear.

He was about to turn away from the image when a final detail caught his eye. Adrenaline tingled through him, followed by something he didn’t know how to name; a strange pull deep inside him. He leaned closer, wanting to be certain he was not mistaken.

Though he might very well be dying, the Apocalypse in the carving had one hand on Nightengale’s hip, fingers cupping the curve of her body with startling intimacy.